


Pretty Girls with Pretty Braids

by IAmWhelmed



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Jealous Damian Wayne, Jealous Jonathan Kent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed
Summary: As they grow older, Superboy acquires fangirls, and Damian is trying to keep himself from tearing all of them-- and Jon-- apart.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne, Jonathan Samuel Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 27
Kudos: 487





	Pretty Girls with Pretty Braids

Jon was just as much a sap as his father was. Oblivious, of course, to the attention of girls, but smitten by the pretty ones with long eyelashes and braided hair. He had a type, and Damian was starting to piece that together after what was probably the third time he’d caught him looking all dough-eyed at a girl who’d been  _ ever so thankful _ that he’d saved her from a burning building. Nevermind that he hadn’t stared too long, Damian had seen it.

If Jon found him more irritable than usual afterwards, well, that was his imagination-- or, at least, none of his business.

They’d taken down the tall, sentient orb blasting holes into the sides of buildings in record time, after all, and he didn’t need to know that Damian had worked harder than he typically might have, moved faster than what was probably considered procedure. It’d taken little more than a well-placed hit to the top center of its orbit, coordinated with an explosive placed strategically at its bottom half. It hardly could have been considered a fight, and Damian and Jon were used to the crowds and applause that came with saving the city. What Damian, or Jon for that matter, wasn’t used to, was the small gaggle of girls that flooded around them. And there was that same girl, the one with the braided hair and the long eyelashes and pretty smile, at the front of it. “Superboy, thank you so much!”

“Hah hah! It’s really no problem!”

Jon was very much like his father in the way that, though he was oblivious to the attentions of girls, he was very much a romantic, a hopeless one, and he was always looking for his own Lois Lane. It wasn’t something they talked about, but it was common sense, a mere fact that Damian could read in the way he carried himself, in his wistful stare at happy couples who joined hands as they strolled in the park. Jon was in love with the idea of love, the concept of shared kisses under a starlit moonlight sky, the stay-in dates with tangled limbs on a couch with a movie, the simplicity of a morning, while she makes breakfast and he wraps his arms around her hips and kisses her. He wanted that, wanted that normalcy, and Damian knew that he was a bastard and anything but normal. Not that Jon would ever look at him that way, the way he looked at the pretty girls.

He tried not to think about it, there were a million and one more important things to do than lament that his partner would never swoon over him the way he did when he had a crush on the new girl in class. His mother had made the mistake of loving a man who could never love her in turn, and he’d never let it get that far, didn’t want to ever hurt Jon the way his father had been hurt. It was hard to restrain himself, though, when he had to stand there and watch as that braid-headed girl grabbed Superboy by the cape and pulled him into a kiss.

Superboy’s eyes had gone wide, wider than he’d ever seen them go, arms spread to either side, stiff and frozen. Damian’s jaw wasn’t much better off. He found that he couldn’t quite close his unhinged face, no matter the ferocity of the signals his brain was sending. The other girls around them swooned and OOO’ed. The braid-headed girl, the  _ hated one _ , made a show with her throat, emphasizing the kiss with a low hum that extended the entire duration, during which she’d deepened the kiss with a tilt of her head. Damian wanted to turn away, he  _ wanted  _ this to not be happening at all, and yet he found himself entirely limp, still standing, but powerless in his own body.

She pulled away with a loud  _ pop _ for emphasis, all smiles and pink cheeks, and Superboy looked very much the same. His whole body stayed frozen, eyes unblinking, cheeks heated and rosy, arms still comedically splayed on either side of him. She released his cape and stepped back, and Damian was sure that she’d said “Thank you”, but all he could see was the absolutely goofy, dumb, stupid look that fell over Superboy’s face. “Hah… hah… no problem…”

Damian sucked his teeth. He didn’t remember grabbing him by the scruff, or grappling away with him under hand, but he must have, because Kent was back at home and he was back in the manor, and in that time, the boy could still hardly form a word.

He threw himself onto his bed, grinding his teeth, squeezing his pillow. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known. He’d known. He’d known all along that Jon would never look at him that way, that they fought all the time, that Jon was everything good in the world while he was everything wrong with it. He’d never be any good for Jon, and it wasn’t like the idea of… them,  _ together _ … would ever occur to Jon. They were friends, had been, and he’d never see him as anything more. He’d known  _ all of that _ , and still, somehow, seeing him kiss some helpless, spineless girl cut deep. And that dreamy look he’d had in his eyes hadn’t helped, either. “Stupid haystack. Stupid Kent!” He tossed his pillow at the window, disappointed when it hit the glass with a soft plush noise and fell instead of shattering it. He got off the bed and kicked the leg of his frame, instead, and when that wasn’t enough, he grabbed at his comforter and ripped it.

Stupid Jon. Couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Never looked around and opened his eyes because his world was so freaking  _ perfect _ and that’s exactly why he  _ needed _ Damian! No, he wanted sunshine and flowers and girls with pink lips and  _ domesticity _ . And what was he supposed to do? Sit by and watch as the love of his life fell hopelessly into love with some stupid normal girl who couldn’t throw an armed assailant over her shoulder if she wanted to? He was an alien for god sakes! Stronger than any one man, faster, a god amongst mortals, and he wanted to waste his time with ants? He had half the mind to forge a kryptonite mace and smack him upside the head with it until he came to his senses. Why was he even keeping his mouth shut? Jon should know just how stupid his pursuit of a normal life is, how utterly inhuman he is, how fruitless his laughable attempts to appear human would always be in the face of his ancestry and his boundless potential.

Damian froze in his room, surrounded by the remains of the comforter he’d disemboweled with his bare hands, the pillows torn piece by piece, the feathers and stitched cotton that sat in torn pieces at his feet. He couldn’t see the ground, anymore.

No. That was exactly what he had to do. Watch Jon fall in love. Watch him kiss her and hold hands with her and defend her. Watch him get nervous working up the money to buy a ring, cheer him on when she inevitably said she’d marry him, stand at his side and watch him swear the rest of his life to the woman who would one day bear him a child. Toast him. Wish him the best. And he’d have to do all of that with a straight face. Damian… was a good actor, and he could do it, but it would kill him, cut deeper than any bullet wound or sword for flesh. Because he was in love with Jon, and he’d do anything,  _ anything at all _ , to keep him smiling, if he was a part of that or not. And he was wondering if he ever could be.

* * *

“Father, I no longer wish to partner with Superboy.”

Batman, who had been under the impression that things had been going  _ well _ , was uncharacteristically surprised. “Why? I thought you and Jon were finally starting to get along.”

They were. More than his father could know, and that was the problem. “I… don’t believe I am what’s best for Jon at the moment. I have learned all that I can from him and I must move forward.”

Batman seemed unconvinced, frown turning to his typical scowl. Because of course it did. It always did, when it was Damian. “Damian, I’ve told you, this was never about you teaching him, or him teaching you, for that matter. You two are partners, and you work well together. If you two are fighting--”

“ _ That’s what I’m trying to avoid, Father! _ ”

There was a moment of silence. Batman’s face remained as thick as carved, polished marble, poised in that scorn. The batcave was already heavy with tension, but now Damian felt it against his shoulders, forcing him down, ridding him of dignity, ruining him. His face scrunched with disbelief, at himself, maybe, at his words? He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, clenching his fists at his sides. That was weakness, again, in front of Father this time. He truly wasn’t fit to be a hero, he had no control over himself, over his emotions. That was why he was there, groveling like a spoiled child. “Damian, what is this really about?”

“I’m not fit for Jon, Father.”

Batman’s tone had taken on a less reproachful note, settled into a patient one, the one he heard him use with his  _ real sons _ all the time. “Why do you say that?”

“I… fear I will hurt him.”

“Son, without kryptonite--”

“The way my mother hurt you, Father.” Concern etched, plain as day into the stony marble that’d been before. “There’s something dark inside of me. If he were here, right now, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I say things, cruel things, without prompt. I fear that, now, the things I’d say would ruin us, ruin him.” That bright, sunny face, those eyes that always smiled, he couldn’t stand to bring him storms. Jon had learned to brush off his typical comments with little pause, little concern, but the things he could feel building up inside of him now, the urge to hurt him in kind the way he’d left him lacerated, that was new. There hadn’t been intention to hurt, before.

“Damian, if there’s something wrong--”

“I just need time, Father. Could you afford me that?” Batman paused for a moment, seemed to contemplate his Robin, who stood before him soaked in the black of his cloak, budding with a darkness that, for the first time in a long time,  _ scared _ his son. If he needed time, counsel, he’d give him that.

“I’ll tell Clark I’ve grounded you from patrol.”

Usually that would upset him, the implication that he’d done something wrong, but Damian sighed in relief. “Thank you, Father.”

* * *

He wasn’t sure what was up with Damian, exactly. He’d been earlier to school than he usually was, early enough that Jon had waited at the spot the helicopter usually came flying in and found the grass had already been blown halfway to Bludhaven by then. So he’d gone to class, waited out the first period because the second period was usually where he and Damian met up and discussed whatever case they were working on, or Damian brought him a new one. To his surprise, discontent, and concern, Damian had not only not shown up at their typical designated meeting spot, he’d sat on the opposite side of the classroom. That, Jon had decided, was enough to warrant a conversation.

So he tried to stop Damian between classes “Damian! Damian, hey! I know you can hear me!”

He tried to find him at lunch, but bats, specifically their bats, were very good at finding a dark place and keeping stock there until the alarm rang-- to signal enemy awareness, or in their case, the end of break.

He got to class before Damian did so he could sit down next to him, wherever he ended up sitting, but found that Damian came in a minute late to class, and he’d already been forced to take a seat by the time the late bell had run. Damian had sat four seats behind him. Wormy little jerk. But, as class dribbled on, as the words became monotonous, he found a moment to look back. And Damian was in pain. His eyebrows knitted together, and not in the way they bunched when he was concentrated. His eyes, usually sharp, and cold, or maybe just cool, were distant and distracted. Thinking about what? His jaw was abnormally set, hard, like he was at the edge of losing himself to his thoughts completely, just shy of grinding teeth into dust. Damian wasn’t the only detective, after all.

At that point, it was absolutely, astonishingly clear that Damian was avoiding him for some reason. Why? He couldn’t be sure, but so help him, he was going to be. “Damian.”

He caught him just as the final bell rang to signal the end of the school day. He’d been on his way out the double doors, pouring by the threshold with the rest of the kids. Damian still didn’t respond, so he did the one thing he could do-- he grabbed him, and he made sure to put a little kryptonian force behind it. The other kids flooded past them, but Damian jerked to a stop at his touch, jerking back as the step he’d set forward tried to regain footing. “Are you going to talk to me, or are you going to brood some more?”

Damian paused, turned around to stare at him. The kids around them branched out, weeded out, thinned until only a few stragglers wandered by the front doors and they were left alone at the steps, Jon’s hand at his wrist, unrelenting.

Damian made that infuriating “tt” noise. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh yeah, said anyone ever who had something to talk about.” Jon glanced around, looking to make sure that nobody was listening in on them, or close enough to overhear. “Look, did I do something, yesterday?” Damian tried to wrench his wrist away, but he held tight.

“You didn’t  _ do _ anything.”

“Then why are we playing Marco Polo today? Why are you avoiding me?” Damian tried again, but Jon tugged him closer. There was no way he was getting away, not after he’d put him through all this trouble just to get a word in.

Damian’s eyes, where before they were unfocused, seemed remarkably focused on anything but him, alight with something akin to fear, but Damian was never scared of anything. “Kent, let go.”

“Ohhh no. Not until you tell me what’s going on with you!” There was a distant sound of giggling, and Jon found his sight averting to the small group of three, pretty girls who were watching them with interest, and if he focused, he could hear them saying things like  _ lover’s spat _ and  _ they’re cute _ . His cheeks caught fire on their own.

Damian stiffened in his hand. Jon’s eyes widened as he looked back to Damian, who was glaring at him, jaw tight again, brows furrowed-- pain. Then it was hidden under the famous Batman Scowl. “Believe me, Kent, it’s not  _ your _ problem. It never was.” What was that supposed to mean? He opened his mouth to ask, but found only a yelp clawing out of his throat as Damian slammed his heel into his toes. It didn’t hurt, but it surprised him enough to let go, and by the time he realized he had, Damian was gone.

* * *

It hurt. It hurt like no training by his grandfather’s hand ever had. It was an arm reaching down his mouth, into his throat, choking him as the fingers dug themselves into the center of him and twisted, the way one would press an orange. He should have just told Jon that it was personal, that he just needed to lay himself out, though he supposed he did, in not as many words. Of course, of course girls would be getting his attention. They were at that age, the age that hormones were going wild, and maybe he could blame all of these ridiculous feelings on that.

He wondered how normal people went about forgetting their first love? Distance, he gathered from the novels he’d read; getting  _ under _ someone else, the music on the radio told him. Yeah right, like he was cheap enough to wallow in his own grief. His father might have been able to pull off The Playboy Lifestyle, but he doubted his pride would let him do the same. Perhaps he could indulge himself in things he didn’t typically do-- bother Drake out of boredom and not necessity, teach Alfred the Cat some tricks. Maybe Titus would be able to show him the ropes? Or perhaps, he could find a new skill. Grayson might have been open to introducing him to gymnastics, maybe he’d study yoga.

He sighed and threw his backpack across the room, at the desk, where it hit the shelf and slid to the floor with a satisfying thump. Whatever. Nothing sounded better than taking Jon on another case, getting into trouble, feeling the sweet satisfaction of a job done alone, without a parenting eye over their shoulder. Nothing sounded better than Jon. He padded over to his bed and softened out the creases in the sheets with his hands, then laid down with his head at his pillow and curled into himself. Maybe, if he closed his eyes long enough, he’d fall asleep.

* * *

Weeks passed by. No new cases, at least, not for Superboy. Robin handled things on his own, though he kept to Gotham limits where there was no chance that Superboy would spring up on him out of nowhere. He would have, if he could have, he knew it. His father was beginning to goad him into bringing one of his brothers along, began looking at him with something like disappointment when he came home and there were bullet grazes and cuts that wouldn’t have been so deep if he hadn’t been on the case alone (if Superboy had been there). He came home one particular night, when a .22LR bullet had lodged its way into his thigh and the stab wound at his shoulder had left him drowsy and borderline useless as he slumped his way back into the batcave.

Alfred had taken to stitching him up immediately, cleaning his wounds, scolding him. His father, as soon as he’d assessed the damage, assured himself that no bullet nor knife had pierced anything vital, he’d given his son a look. The Look. The Batman Is So Worried He’s Mad look, the You’re Getting Benched For Real Now look. He hadn’t said a word, but Damian had nodded and told him: “I will refrain from field work until I am well, Father.”

What  _ well _ actually meant was up to interpretation.

It was later that same night that he heard Superman pleading with his father.

“Jon really misses him, Bruce.” Superman’s forlorn tone reached his ears, even through the gravel of the video call. It left his stomach twisting. “And you and I both know Damian isn’t really grounded.”

“This is between them, Clark. Damian requested time away… I couldn’t deny him that. If you’d seen his face--” That was guilt in his father’s voice, regret, for what he wasn’t sure.

“If it’s between them, let them handle it together.” Damian winced. “They’re a team, Bruce. If something is bothering Damian, they need to learn to talk about it. Though,” He could hear by the raise in his tone that he was cocking an eyebrow. “I suppose your bunch isn’t very good at that, huh?”

Batman hummed, noncommittal.

* * *

At school, he kept his distance. Jon no longer shot him pleading looks, but pitiful glances, like he had something to pity him for. He did, maybe, but he shouldn’t have put that together, he shouldn’t have understood what he’d done to him, and the look felt shallow, anyway. It was the pity you got when you got busted for forgetting to do your homework and your parent blew a gasket over your friend’s homeline so they could hear. The kind normal kids gave. He pretended he didn’t see it.

Jon still tried to talk to him, but he got better at evading him, better at eating lunch in the shadows of the empty classrooms, better at finding alternate exits to the school-- one, of which, was a window on the second floor at the opposite side of the front door exit, where he could latch onto a tree branch outside and worry his way down. If Jon had caught on, he hadn’t tried to corner him yet.

If he was honest, this wasn’t helping, none of it was. Avoiding Jon only made him want to be with him more. Hearing that Jon missed him, too, made the strings of his heart tie so fervently that it felt like the knot couldn’t be undone, too small, too tight, too definite. This distance was supposed to ground him, remind him who he was, who he couldn’t be, but it’d only made him grow fonder. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to let go when he saw those blue eyes every damn day? Felt his sunshine radiating even when he wasn’t there, without his deceitful, damning darkness there to cloud it. He was starting to consider prodding Father about homeschooling. He could never stop being Robin, he yearned so for the excitement and activity, but he could resign himself to being only Robin, again. With no Jon Kent, with no Superboy, he could stay Batman’s right hand, focus on the deathly streets of Gotham where he belonged. Jon would prosper without him around as a distraction, bloom in the sun like he’d been meant to. Damian just had to remove himself completely, for a little while, and maybe when he was over him, they could find each other again.

He’d approached his father with the intention of broaching the subject with him, of homeschooling. Finding a good tutor had to be easy enough with his father’s money and influence, and hey! His mother wasn’t there to slit their throats and throw them into the sea anymore, so that was a plus. And he’d actually learn from somebody more qualified, presumably, rather than waste his time with busy work for children. The idea was beginning to look more and more delicious, and he’d actually carried himself with some confidence in it as he’d approached his father.

And then he’d heard Clark over the computer. “He won’t let me, Bruce, he won’t give me a location, and I know he’s in trouble.”

“Sounds like one of my own. I’ll try to track him.”

“Father?” He came to stand at his side, eyeing the screen as dots of light blue and red darted around. Batman looked down at him, studying him for a moment, contemplating…  _ something _ . He blinked right back.

“On second thought, Superman, I have a better idea.” He nodded to Robin. “Son, I need you to talk to Jon.”

What? His heart felt like it flipped. “Y-You can’t be serious. Father!”

“Superboy is in trouble, Robin.” He glanced at the computer, where Superman’s voice was, where his audio bursted up and down in soundwaves as he spoke. “He won’t tell me where he is, and I can’t hear him.”

“Robin,” Father turned to him, set one heavy hand at his shoulder. Damian swallowed. “He needs you. Go.” He found that, even though he wanted to, he couldn’t argue.

* * *

Tracking him was easy enough. Their walkie talkies were engineered for a situation such as this, not that Superboy knew that. He was in downtown Baralsville, struggling from the looks of it, and he was looking from above; he shook the can in his hand until he could feel the cold biting at the tips of his gloves. Superboy struggled against what appeared to be a small army of squid creatures. Though he was more than strong enough to pull out of their grip, there were a plethora of them, each creature a decapod, and the legs seemed to just keep coming. Superboy appeared to be less interested in saving himself, more interested in the girl who was dangling helplessly over one of the creatures, crying and begging for help as the thing’s head split into an open mouth with an assortment of sharp teeth.  _ Pretty girl. Exactly his type _ . He scoffed to himself. “Thought I was the one who got  _ you _ into trouble?”

Superboy’s head snapped in his direction, but the can he’d dropped exploded at just the right time. A page taken out of Mister Freeze’s book, compressed air so compact that, upon explosion, freezes everything at an absolute zero temperature. The creatures appeared soft, gooey, susceptible to freezing in the right temperature. As the smoke cleared away, it looked like his bet had been right. The creature that raised the girl painstakingly in the air, hovered her over its mouth the way a child played with a spaghetti noodle, was all but an icicle. The other creatures seemed to freeze for a moment, finding movement difficult, or slowed. Superboy was able to tear himself free. Robin swung down from his perch at the rooftop and swept her into his arms, laying a kick into the side of the frozen creature below and shattering it.

He landed and rolled with her in his arms a few feet away. She gasped, wide, terrified eyes suddenly full of relief. “Robin!” He nodded, setting her safely on the ground. She was shivering, cold, and the spaghetti straps and shorts probably weren’t helping. Why she would have left the house in such revealing sleepwear, he didn’t dare to hazard a guess. Her pouting, full lips were turning blue with the chill, but he found no damage that couldn’t be reversed with a few days' time and a warm shower-- and more conservative clothes.

“Get out of here.”

He turned back to the fray, where Superboy was taking one creature and sending it bowling into some of its frozen friends. Instead of bowing like pins, they shattered like sculptures. Robin threw some batarangs, watched as two or three, it was hard to tell in the mess of limbs, caved to the power and showered the area with pieces of purple blood that was sticky to the touch. Another two approached him, and he readied his fists. He sent a sweeping kick that landed and hopped over the reaching tentacle of another as it came. Using that to propel himself he leaped and took out another batarang. This creature opened its mouth, from where he could see just how far the layered hell of teeth went, a dark abyss of nothing. He threw the batarang in a hole in one, wincing as it exploded and sent him flying. He hadn’t anticipated the gooey mess he’d made, or the way it stuck to the ground.

He rolled for a moment, grunting as he tried to lift his arm from the ground, but whatever their blood was made of, it was thick, and sticky, and it felt like he’d been super glued to the street. It smelled, too, like kale and rotten eggs had a baby. The streetlight above shined right in his eyes, and it was the sensory overload he never asked for. “Ugh, gross.”

“Need some help?” He blinked as the streetlight faltered, a familiar face finding him as he laid there helpless. Superboy smiled down at him, looking positively radiant in the glow of the night-- and positively smug. He snorted and reached as far as he could to take the offered hand. Superboy reached down a little further than he’d thought he needed to, taking not his wrist, but his hand as he pulled him up. Damian yelped as he was suddenly standing and falling forward, settling himself with one hand against Superboy’s upper arm. “Welcome back.” He could hear the smile in his voice.

Robin frowned. “Yeah…”

They were silent for a moment. He couldn’t look him in the eyes. He’d gone charging into trouble on his own because Robin wasn’t there, he just knew it. Stupid, stupid farmboy. How was he supposed to know his absence would make a god foolish? “You know, you could have just told me your dad grounded you. I know how you get.”

What? Was that really what he thought that had been about? Robin blinked, but the sincerity and concern on Superboy’s face was as transparent as parchment paper. He meant it. “That’s… that’s not actually--”

“Look, I get it, okay? You have… there’s a lot of darkness in you, or what you think is darkness. And I get it, sometimes you doubt yourself.” Jon rubbed at the back of his neck, face heavy, and he’d made him that way. Sad. Worried. About him. He had been since day one. He’d just been blinded by his own jealousy, too swept up in how it felt to grieve a future he’d already known would never come to pass. Superboy had been by his side, waiting for him, all that time. “I just want you to know, there’s no darkness in you that could scare me away, okay?”

He nearly laughed in his face, because if he only knew. Instead, he let his guard down, he let Superboy see him smile, even if it hurt, even if it wasn’t what he wanted, even if this didn’t make his heart stop this quiet yearning. Because at the very least, he had a friend, a good one, and he could be honest with him, or try to be. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Superboy was all smiles, then, not the big, bright kind that usually blinded Damian even in company of the midday sun, but warm, toasty, comforting like a fire.

“Um…” They both turned, and the girl from before was back, garnishing a hose. She looked nervous, shifting from one bare foot to the other, thighs brushing, fingers tentative around the hose’s head. “This is… just a hose from my house, but… I was wondering if you guys wanted to wash off?” Sure enough, they glanced down at themselves, and they were covered in sticky, gooey, smelly blood. Or goop. Maybe, for Superboy’s sake, they could call it goop. They looked at each other, looked at her, and nodded.

The  _ goop _ was surprisingly susceptible to water. He’d have to keep that in mind, in the event that more of those creatures found their way to Earth, or the surface, depending on wherever they came from. The Helpless Girl had plugged the hose into the fire hydrant, spraying them down, ordering them to turn when needed. The  _ goop _ ran down their bodies as easy as if they’d been covered in soy sauce, and the smell, miraculously, disappeared with it. It was a relief, the cold water hitting the surface of his suit, washing away the uncomfortable stickiness that made it hard to move. Anything that made it hard to move was a problem. Superboy let out a “Whoop” of appreciation as the water hit his skin, stretching like he was in his bathroom shower. The girl giggled as Robin rolled his eyes.

The hose cleaned up the street pretty well, too, and wouldn't leave much work for the city. “Thanks! Uh, what’s your name?”

“Oh!” She giggled, and Robin tried not to seethe. Just because  _ there was no darkness in him that could scare Jon away _ didn’t mean he shouldn’t try to reign in his stupid, complicated little emotions. They were just as bad for the field as they were for their partnership. He’d just have to find a way to get past them on his own time. “My name is Bonnie!”

“Thanks, Bonnie!”

“Oh, no, thank you for stepping in to save me!” To Robin’s surprise, she turned her attention to him next. “And um, thank you for uh, well, stepping in to save both of us.”

“I resent that!” Superboy huffed, clearly thinking he absolutely could have handled that situation by himself.

Robin tried not to let his irritation with her show. She couldn’t help being smitten with the Boy of Steel, he couldn’t exactly help himself, either. “It was a non-issue.”

She giggled again. “You’re really cool, you know that?”

Oh. Well, okay. Yeah, he was pretty cool. Maybe Bonnie wasn’t such an annoyance after all. He grinned. “Well, one of us has to be.”

“Hey!” He could see Superboy pouting if he glanced over Bonnie’s shoulder.

She cupped her hands in front of her, swinging her arms back and forth, a small, almost shy smile on her full lips, lips that he almost found his eyes drawn to as she batted her eyelashes up at him. “If I’m lucky, maybe you’ll come save me again, someday…”

“I’d certainly hope not. You should stay as far away from danger as possible as an untrained civilian--mmph!”

He hardly had time to blink as Bonnie threw her arms over his shoulders and pulled him into a deep kiss. His eyes shot open, but he couldn’t actually see much beyond her bouncing curls and her closed eyes. He wasn’t sure what his hands were doing, but her hands had joined together at the back of his neck. Behind her, he could vaguely hear what sounded like Superboy choking. Her lips were soft, and she tasted of something sweet, like artificial cocoa chapstick, and the movement of her lips was, though unexpected, surprisingly pleasant; the experience as a whole was some unholy conglomeration of the most exhilarating and most distressing moment of his life.

Bonnie pulled away a moment later, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with glee. He frowned at her. “That was entirely unnecessary.”

She only giggled again and waved in ways of goodbye, heading back to what he assumed was the direction of her apartment. He and Superboy stood there for a few moments, watching after her. It was only after she disappeared in the streetlights roads away that he said something.

Robin crossed his arms and smirked. “I can see why you were smiling like an idiot, now. Not an entirely unpleasant experience.”

Superboy, to his credit, appeared to have composed himself despite the twitch in his eye and the way his hands were claws that jerked every couple of seconds. His face read of agitation. “Yeah. Sure.”

“What do you say we make up for lost time?” He offered Superboy a hand, to which Superboy’s face turned an off shade of pink and spasmed in a weird way.

“Wh-What?”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “What do  _ you _ call them? Sleepovers? Been awhile since we’ve had one.” Superboy was the one who proposed the idea in the first place, what could he have possibly taken him to mean?

The pink on his face seemed to fade, and he swallowed hard. “O-Oh, uh, right. Yeah.”

* * *

The flight to Jon’s was quiet, felt surreal. Earlier that night, he’d thought that there was no way that they’d be doing anything… friendly… for another six months, minimum. He hadn’t been confident he could quiet his traitorous heart any sooner, and he still wasn't sure he ever could. But he had to try, for Jon, for their fathers, for their line of work, for himself. And despite what he’d lead Jon to believe, being carried in his arms, smelling his softener on his uniform, feeling his arms wrapped around him and the air hitting his face, it was the happiest he’d been in weeks. Even if he couldn’t stop loving Jon, even if he had to watch him fall in love with somebody else, eventually, it was all worth it to feel like this, now. To be by his side. To be his one and only partner, because even if a pretty girl with braided hair came along and swept Jon off his unskilled feet, he had faith she couldn’t replace him. He set his face in the crook of Jon’s neck and hoped he didn’t feel it, or feel him smile.

Jon was uncharacteristically quiet. They’d been separated for weeks, but he didn’t think that was quite enough time to break Jon’s habit of blabbering on and on about the most mundane things. He wished he could break the silence, himself, but he’d never been very good at that, at least, not if he wanted to keep the mood anything resembling jovial, and even that was questionable. Jon’s silence felt dead, like he wasn’t all there. The grip around him was tight, as tight as it usually was, but his gaze was fixated far away, on nothing in particular. He could tell by the unwavering shift of Jon’s chin, the way it hadn’t moved since he’d all but knocked Robin off his feet. Instead of waiting for Robin to come to him as usual, he’d damn well nearly knocked out his knees with his forearm. The only reason his head hadn’t hit the ground was because his other arm had been waiting to catch him. It was aggressive for Jon, for sure. What was to be made of that, he had no idea. Everything should have been fine between them, now. They’d talked. They’d come to an unspoken agreement. That was the way it’d always been. What was so different now, he wasn’t sure.

It was another thirty minutes of radio silence and cold air before they landed in the window of Jon’s room. He’d set Damian down and smiled at him, the usual Jon smile, with just a hint of hesitance. Maybe he was just getting back to the new normal? “You can borrow some pajamas, again.” He reached for his dresser and pulled out the middle drawer. “Hey, maybe you grew in four weeks, and my stuff will actually fit you.”

“Oh hah hah, Kent, you’re the first person to make a short joke. I’m in awe of your comedic prowess.”

“I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed.”

“It’s been four weeks, not four years.”

“Yeah, well,” Jon pulled away and shut the drawer, carrying a set of pajamas on each arm. “It really felt like it.”

Oh. Damian winced. “Jon… I’m sorry. I should have… talked to you.”

“Yeah, you should have, but it’s okay.” He took the sleepwear offered, and Jon shot him another smile. “The next time you’re having an angsty moment, you’ll tell me, right?”

He huffed. Angsty moment. “Right.”

Jon left to the bathroom to change, and Damian stripped himself of his uniform. He had to be careful, as he peeled the layers, because that bullet wound still hadn’t healed completely, and that stab wound to his shoulder was going to be sore in the morning without a doubt. Jon’s soft shirt and softer pants were a welcome comfort that had him sighing. Comfy, Jon would say. He rolled his eyes, because that was so childish, but that was exactly what he loved about Jon. He took a seat on his bed, watched as the only light in the room, the sliver slipping out from the crevice between the bathroom door and the floor. He could see Jon’s shadow moving around, and an unreasonable sense of giddiness filled him.

He was still in love, hopelessly, uselessly, carelessly in love. He’d have to eat up time spent with Jon as much as he possibly could, get some control over his envy, though he suspected that would take months of work. Then again, as the years rolled by, he’d probably get better at it. After all, Jon was a charmer, now, with those big blue eyes and that smile and that laugh, and even his boy scout attitude was maddeningly attractive. If he was cute now, he knew that Jon was going to be an Adonis by the time he had to worry about him having a serious fling. Girls would come and go, and Damian would stay, and eventually he’d get better at biting down the seething acid that slipped like bile into his throat when he thought of that girl kissing him.

Okay, maybe the jealousy thing was going to be a hard contender, but he had faith he could handle it.

The door opened, Jon entered the room, working a towel through his hair, lively blue eyes looking lost, again. Damian greeted him with a smirk. “Still had to take a shower?” Jon didn’t respond, probably didn’t want to dignify him. If he was right, Jon was rolling his eyes at him behind the fluff of that towel. Jon took the towel and tossed it into the clothes bin by his door, then finally headed Damian’s way. “Getting hosed down in the middle of the street wasn’t enough for…?”

Jon didn’t stop in front of him, no. Jon placed a knee by his side and grabbed him by the crook of his neck, forcing him forward, into a kiss. Damian’s eyes widened, any words of discontent muffled as Jon’s lips swallowed his own. The kiss was harder than Bonnie’s, not done for the sake of it, but almost to prove a point. He was warm, and so engulfing that it felt as though he’d been set aflame. Every finger at the back of his neck was a spark, a candlestick, lighting him up, goading him. Slowly, he closed his eyes, gave in, whimpered as Jon deepened the kiss. The hand at his neck drifted, ghosted up his skin until Jon was cupping his cheek in one hand. Their lips parted, but came together again, and suddenly he felt dizzy. He reached out to Jon’s shoulder and grabbed it just to steady himself, and Jon only grew in confidence.

He was biting as his lip, and his mind was racing and he had no idea what he was doing so he parted his lips and whined as Jon’s tongue slipped by his lips. It was soft, and it brushed against his own with such slow, purposeful motions that it stirred something in his stomach, something hot, something that yearned as strongly as his heart had, and a great measure of it was still his heart. Their lips parted with a thin line of silver between them, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he got a clear look at Jon’s face. Flushed, eyes of blue, a reflection of his virtue, now foggy and so, so unshakingly focused, filled with desire. He was sure his face must have looked the same. He parted his lips to say something, anything, but Jon was on him again, tongue lapping his own up and playing with him. Damian clung to anything he could grab, hands twisting in Jon’s pajama shirt, leaving wrinkles behind in place of the knots Jon was leaving in him. His legs parted, and Jon moved to stand between them, to get even closer. The hand that was at his neck found its way to his waist where he pulled Damian flush against him. Jon bit at his lip, and Damian gasped. “Jon…” It came out as a whisper, a plea, and he wasn’t sure what he was begging for. Jon kissed him again, and bit him, and as Damian moved to follow, Jon panted.

“Damian…” Their lips only centimeters apart, eyes half-lidded as they took in the moment. Their noses brushed, and that proximity made him crave another kiss. He’d been effectively turned to putty. Shameful. “Is that enough to make  _ you _ smile like an idiot?”

Huh? Damian blinked. “W-What?” He hated how breathless he sounded, how even with his natural inquisitiveness, everything in him still demanded more, another kiss.

Jon exhaled, and it was a laugh. “You said I smiled like an idiot. When that fan kissed me?”

Ugh. Why’d he have to go and remind him of that? “What-- about it?” He panted, fingers itching, yearning to bring him closer. Jon leaned forward, just enough that he could kiss him, and the gesture was torture.

“If she couldn’t do it, I was hoping I could.”

Bonnie. Who’d kissed him earlier. His eyes widened for a fraction of a moment, then flitted back into yearning, mindless desirous territory. “You’ve done so much worse.” Jon kissed him, again, slow, beckoning, and for a moment, the part of his brain that was still working begged the question where he learned this, how he knew that brushing his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue-- like that-- was enough to drive him wild? Jon bit at his lip again just as his fingers brushed under the hem of his shirt. Jon’s tongue met his again, and he drank it all in, gasping as his fingers clawed lightly at his lower back. “Jon…” He gripped him by the hair, dug his fingers in and forced him back down to kiss. Jon leaned over him, kissing him with some fierceness, hand clawing at his back as Damian’s tangled in his hair.

Jon bit at his lip, again, and then suddenly he was at his neck, pressing light kisses from his jaw to the dip of his collarbone. He clung still to him as his lips parted at his skin, teeth dragging against the bone before he bit. Damian gasped, moaning as he continued across his collar, leaving bruises, bite marks, kisses. “Mmm…” His legs clenched on either side of him, nails digging into his hair as he whined.

“Can we agree…” Jon’s hot breath on his skin made him tilt his head back. “Fangirls don’t get kisses, all right?” Was that what all of this had been about? Damian blinked.

“Kent, were you--” Jon bit at the space between his neck and shoulder, and he whimpered. “Ah, were you jealous?”

If Jon heard him, he didn’t answer. He ran his nails down his back, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make him moan. Of course, of course that made sense. He’d been so consumed with the annoying resemblance to his father-- the obliviousness, the romanticism-- that he hadn’t stopped to consider what other traits Jon may share with his father. Jealousy, he remembered his father telling him, was certainly not a monster Superman was immune to. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had some green to work on stifling. Jon ran his fingers in circles at his back, sometimes soothing, sometimes clawing, as if marking Damian, reminding him who he belonged to. “Then you know how I felt.”

Jon paused, pulled away from his shoulder to look Damian in the desire-riddled eyes. He looked helplessly confused, like a lost puppy, and then a hurt puppy, brows knitted, eyes soft and filled,  _ filled _ with sympathy. “Damian… is that what you meant? When you said it was never  _ my _ problem?”

He wasn’t sure how he managed it, with a half a tank full of air, bite marks all over his shoulders, and a pounding heart that wouldn’t stop, but Damian smirked. “Well, it wasn’t.”

Jon laughed, but it also sounded horribly like a sigh. “You know, one kiss from you back then and you would have knocked me out of goofy smile and straight into Cloud 9 territory.”

He couldn’t help it, he blushed, and to hide that he scowled. It came off more like a pout. “It’s not my fault you like pretty girls.”

Jon snorted and shook his head. “Apparently I don’t like them very much when they kiss you.”

“That makes two of us.”

Jon kissed him, again, raising one hand to trace the marks he’d left on his skin. It made Damian shiver. He kissed him slow, purposefully, drawing away only when he’d once again kissed the air out of his lungs. “You’re mine,” he thought he heard him mumble, but he was biting his lips swollen, again, before he could ask.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, while I'm working on the outline for what is essentially going to be Origami Birds Movie 1 (lmao) I needed a little jealous-angst-pick-me-up.


End file.
